


Alive

by twinedjupiters



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence Post 8x03, F/M, Fix It Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:18:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinedjupiters/pseuds/twinedjupiters
Summary: Theon clings to life after the Battle of Winterfell.





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I posted the first part of this to tumblr a few hours after 8.03 aired and I got a lot of people asking for more so I turned it into a full-length fic. Enjoy!

Sansa is the first to move, as the dust and bones settle around the survivors in the crypts. It’s quiet, so quiet she’s sure everyone around her must be able to hear the frantic beating of her heart, but she simply grips her dragonglass dagger tighter and takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

“Stay here,” she whispers to the frightened people at her back, eyes making brief contact with both Gilly and Missandei, silently leaving them in charge. Tyrion will follow her forward, she knows.

As she steps carefully over both decaying bones and fresh corpses, she does her best not to examine any of the faces too closely. It would be bad enough to have to look into the blank eyes of someone she’d been huddled here with just moments ago – one of her people whom she’d failed to protect – but her father’s bones are down here as well, she knows. Her baby brother’s, too. She can’t bear the thought of looking down and seeing some twisted shade of the ones she loves looking back at her.

So she holds her head high, steps forward carefully but confidently. Surely, the plan had worked. If the wights have fallen then the Night King must be dead. They must have won, mustn’t they?

Sansa and Tyrion creep quietly forward, up the winding staircase and out of sight of the eyes watching them from below. They stop when they reach the door, eyes meeting as they both lean an ear against it, listening hard. 

Sansa can’t hear anything on the other side and she isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one. From the look on Tyrion’s face, he’s of much the same opinion. They hold each other’s gaze a moment longer, listening intently, until finally Sansa has had enough waiting. She gives Tyrion a nod and reaches for the crossbar. 

As quietly as they can, they lift the heavy piece of wood out of its place and Sansa is able to open to door, just a crack, and peer out. 

Her breath catches at the sight. Bodies lie in heaps around the courtyard, fires are burning everywhere she turns, and rubble is strewn all about. There is still some movement, however, but from this vantage point she can’t tell if it’s friendly or not.

Carefully, she pushes the door wider and steps out, keeping close to the wall and staying in the shadow. It’s not the dead still roaming about, however, but the living. She catches sight of Brienne first and almost sobs with joy to see her still standing tall, Podrick at her side. Jaime Lannister is still alive, too, and as she scans the courtyard she sees other familiar faces: Jon’s wildling friend, Tormund; the general of the Targaryen’s Unsullied army; Samwell Tarly and Ser Davos and that blacksmith boy Arya seems to like. It’s more than she could have hoped for.

But where is her family?

Brienne notices her then and begins to make her way over, calling out to her as she does, but Sansa isn’t paying attention. Right now there are other faces she needs to find and so she turns, lifting her skirts around her, and makes for the Godswood.

There are bodies scattered everywhere as she treads the familiar path through the trees toward the towering Weirwood in the middle. Unlike before she glances hard at every face she passes here, praying she won’t see any of the ones she’s looking for but desperate to know the truth either way. 

As she emerges into the clearing where she used to watch her father pray her breath catches and she stops short. Jon is already there, with Arya and Bran. The former two are beaten and bloodied, but alive. Bran is looking no worse for wear at all and Sansa feels a sob of relief bubble up out of her throat. 

All three of her siblings turn to look at her, suddenly noticing her presence. Her eyes find Jon’s first.

“You did it,” she says, voice shaking.

Jon shakes his head, eyes wide, and turns to look at their younger sister. “She did it.”

“We did it,” Arya replies. “All of us.”

Sansa glances around them, at the bodies lying in the snow. So many of them are wearing Greyjoy armor and she feels her heart begin to race again as she scans them for a familiar mop of curls. When she doesn’t find him, she looks to Bran.

“Theon?” she asks, terrified of the answer.

Bran doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to the side. Sansa follows his gaze and feels her heart skip as her eyes land on the familiar form crumpled in the snow.

Sansa trips forward, her legs moving of their own accord, and falls to her knees next to him. She can feel her siblings watching her but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything right now.

“Theon,” she murmurs, tears in her eyes as she gently rolls him over, his head falling into her lap. He’s limp and cold and soaked in his own blood.

Sansa pushes the hair back from his face and lets out another sob, this one full of desperation and grief. They had survived so much and come so far. How could she lose him now?

The tears are flowing freely now and Sansa can’t help but double over, leaning so low over Theon that their foreheads touch. There are so many things she wants to say to him – _I’m sorry_ and _thank you_ and _I love you_ – but it’s too late now. She should have said it earlier, when they’d sat together in the courtyard sharing a meal or when he’d first arrived in Winterfell, pledging himself to fight for their home.

She hears the crunch of snow as someone approaches her slowly. Jon, she knows. Arya moves more quietly than that. She can’t bring herself to look up at him, though, not yet. She keeps her head bent over Theon’s, her tears flowing off of her cheeks and onto his. 

_Salt water_ , some absent part of her mind thinks. _Appropriate for an Ironborn prince._

 _Appropriate that he should die here,_ another part of her replies. _In their home with the Old Gods watching over him._

“Sansa,” Jon murmurs, voice low and gentle from a few feet away. 

She swallows and readies herself to pull back from Theon and meet her brother’s eye when a soft tickle at her ear makes her freeze. She stays completely still, hardly daring to breathe as she waits to feel it again. The seconds drag on and just when she’s convinced herself that it was just a trick of her desperate imagination, it comes again: the caress of her hair against her ear as its stirred by a weak breath. 

She does pull back then, staring down into Theon’s face in astonishment and looking for any sign of life. Sure enough, as she watches him his lips part ever-so-slightly and his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones.

“He’s alive,” Sansa breathes.

“Sansa?” Jon repeats, too far away to hear her.

“He’s alive!” she calls out, eyes finally jumping up to meet her brother’s. “Get a Maester!”

Jon turns but Arya is quicker, already sprinting out of the Godswood in search of help. Instead, he turns back to Sansa and Theon, rushing to their side and doing what he can to stem the bleeding as they wait for Arya to return.

Sansa leans over Theon again, taking his face in her hands and not caring that Jon can hear every word she whispers to him.

“You’re going to be alright,” she promises. “You’re home and you’re safe and we’re going to take care of you.”

XxXx

The light of dawn is casting long shadows over the courtyard of Winterfell when Sansa steps out of Theon’s room. The Maester had removed the spear from his abdomen, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, and Theon had sunk back into the sheets, pale and weak. She hadn’t wanted to leave his side but she’s of no use to anyone shut away up here watching him sleep and there’s work to be done.

As she turns to leave, heading for the stone stairway at the end of the corridor, she catches the sound of approaching footsteps and a moment later Jon has come around the corner. They both pause at the sight of each other.

“How is he?” Jon finally asks.

Sansa shrugs. “Resting.”

“Did the Maester say if…?” Jon trails off.

“If he’ll die?” Sansa finishes for him. She swallows, shakes her head. “He might. We don’t know yet.”

Jon nods. “Bran says he fought bravely. To the very last.”

Tears spring to Sansa’s eyes and she finally looks away from her brother, down to the floor. Before she has the chance to say anything else, she hears the thud of Jon’s footfalls as he closes the space between them in a second and pulls her into a hug. 

She lets herself lean into him, burying her face in the soft fur of his cloak. It’s so jarringly familiar that she’s instantly thrust back in time, a little girl crying into her father’s shoulder because Theon had been teasing her. Strange, how things can be so different and yet still the same. Different arms are wrapped around her now and a different cloak catches her tears, but it was the same boy who caused them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jon asks her softly after a moment.

Sansa sniffs. “I didn’t know.”

They had crept up on her, these feelings for Theon. When they’d last seen each other neither of them had been in a fit state to be thinking of anything like romance, but they’d been through something together that had created an undeniable bond. But when he’d suddenly appeared at Winterfell yesterday, and stood before her tall and proud and _Theon_ , she felt a tension that she hadn’t even noticed she’d been carrying ease in her chest. 

Just how long she’s loved him, she can’t say. Maybe since that day they parted ways in the Wolfswood. Maybe since much earlier, since they were both children, arrogant and naïve and with heads full of songs. Maybe it’s only since yesterday.

But the _when_ of it doesn’t matter, not as much as the _now_ does. And now Theon is abed, maybe dying, and Sansa has to keep her head up. She’s the Lady of Winterfell and her people are counting on her. So, with one final breath, she straightens up, pulling away from Jon and recomposing herself. 

Jon watches her closely before clearing his throat, a little awkwardly, and telling her why he’s really here. “A raven arrived from Pyke.”

That can only mean one thing. “Theon’s sister?”

Jon nods. “She and her men have taken back the Iron Islands.”

Sansa almost smiles. “That’s good news.”

“It is,” Jon agrees. “But she’ll be expecting word back and we’ll have to tell her about Theon.”

“Of course we will,” Sansa nods. “I’m sure she’ll want to know.”

Jon seems to hesitate a moment. “She may want to come to Winterfell.”

Confused as to just what he’s getting at, Sansa slowly replies, “And she’ll be very welcome if she does.”

“Will she?” Jon asks.

Sansa eyes him suspiciously. “Is there any reason she shouldn’t be?”

Jon sighs. “Historically, Starks and Greyjoys haven’t always gotten along.”

“Is that what this is about?” Sansa rolls her eyes. “Jon, she’s Theon’s _sister_. Not only that, but more than a dozen of her men died in our Godswood last night defending our brother. If she wants to come here, she is of course welcome.”

“I don’t disagree with that,” Jon replies. “We just don’t need any more conflict right now.”

Sansa actually laughs at that, though there’s no real humour behind it. “Trust me, Jon, I’ve had my fill of conflict as well.”

There’s still Cersei to be dealt with, but that’s the Dragon Queen’s war. All Sansa cares about now is protecting and rebuilding The North, Cersei be damned.

Jon looks a little dubious at that and Sansa wonders briefly if he’s thinking of Daenerys, too. “That might be true,” he finally allows. “But has she?”

“You think Yara Greyjoy is going to come here and start a war with us while her brother lays d—” she stops herself; they don’t know that he’s dying, not yet “—lays _injured_ in one of our bedchambers?”

Jon sighs. “Theon might be family, but we don’t know his sister at all.”

“Theon trusts her,” Sansa replies. They’d told each other everything they’d been through – finding allies at the Wall and Mereen, defeating Ramsay and fleeing Euron, losing Rickon and saving Yara. Was it really only yesterday that they’d sat together, sharing a meal and telling their tales? “And so does your new queen.”

Jon gives her the sort of look only an exasperated older brother can manage. “I thought you’d had your fill of conflict?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “ _I_ have, but that’s up to her.”

“Dany came here to help us,” Jon insists. 

“I know that,” Sansa allows. “And I’m grateful to her for it, I am, but this wasn’t just The North’s war. The army of the dead wasn’t going to stop at The Neck. She was defending herself as much as anyone.”

Jon huffs. “I wish you two would make peace.”

“I’d be happy to make peace,” Sansa tells him. “I’d be happy to be her friend and ally, I just don’t see why I must be her subject as well. Because she has dragons? Dragons didn’t kill the Night King and they won’t keep our people fed through this winter.”

Jon sighs again and Sansa thinks she’s beginning to win him over, but she can still see the conflict waging within him.

Placing a gentle hand on her brother’s shoulder, she softly says, “I know you love her, and, for your sake, I want to love her, too. But The North comes first. It has to.”

She gives his shoulder a squeeze before moving to brush past him. His hand on her wrist makes her stop and turn back. 

“There’s more,” he says, voice low.

Sansa doesn’t like the look in his eye now and she swallows. “What is it?”

“They’ve started collecting the dead…” Jon trails off, but Sansa can see his meaning in his eyes.

“Who?” she asks, dreading the answer.

“Lyanna Mormont,” he tells her.

For a moment, Sansa feels as though the wind has been knocked out of her. The Lady of Bear Island, little Lyanna Mormont, who’d pledged all 62 of her men when the rest of The North has turned their backs on them, who had been the first to declare Jon king, who was their most loyal friend and ally – dead, at the age of 12. 

“They say she killed a giant,” Jon goes on when Sansa remains silent. “Put her blade right through its eye.”

“She was brave,” Sansa agrees.

Jon nods. “Still, she should’ve been down in the crypts.”

Sansa gives a humourless laugh, all too aware of the ways little girls suffer in war. She’d told Jon once that no one can protect anyone, but she knows he doesn’t believe that. Deep down, she hopes he never does.

“We weren’t safe down their, either,” she replies.

“I heard,” Jon says, pauses. “They just… crawled out of their crypts?”

Sansa swallows, nods.

Jon hesitates again. “Did—”

“I didn’t look,” she cuts him off.

Now Jon nods. “Right. We’ll see to it that it gets cleaned up.”

Sansa looks away to flatten her skirts and Jon fidgets with his gloves. She wonders if he’s having the same terrible thoughts as her. Even if their father and brother hadn’t stirred last night, every bone that had once belonged to a Stark. Their grandparents, their uncle, their aunt, lords and ladies of House Stark stretching back thousands of years. How far had the Night King’s reach extended? Was it just the newer tombs? Or had his influence seeped all the way down to the vaults where the old Kings of Winter slept, deep and dark and undisturbed for generations?

Jon clears his throat, breaking the silence and her reverie. “We should get back out there.”

“Yes,” Sansa agrees, sparing one last glance at Theon’s door before turning and heading down the stairs. 

XxXx

Lady Lyanna wasn’t the night’s only casualty. Almost all of the Dothraki, more than half the Unsullied, Ser Jorah Mormont and Beric Dondarrion and Edd of the Night’s Watch – all gone. She’s at Jon’s side when the Black Brother’s body is carried into the courtyard, hears his sharp gasp when he catches sight of him. They already know, of course. Sam had been there when it happened, but knowing it isn’t the same as seeing it, Sansa knows. 

Edd’s body is lowered to the ground, laid out with the countless others, and Jon stoops to kneel over him. Sam has noticed from across the courtyard and made his way over. Sansa takes a step back, not wanting to intrude on this moment, but also wanting to pay her own respects as well. She hadn’t known him well, of course, but he’d been kind to her when she’d arrived at The Wall, when she’d been so in need of kindness, and she’ll always think of him fondly because of it.

Jon lifts Edd’s arms and rests them over his chest before placing his own hand over his no-longer-beating heart. “And now his watch is ended,” Jon murmurs.

“And now his watch is ended,” Sam repeats, not trying to hide the tears that are welling in his eyes.

Sansa looks down into Edd’s face one last time, thanking him silently for all he did, before turning and leaving the men to their grief.

She’s of little help lifting bodies or moving rubble, so she heads inside, to the Great Hall where the injured are being tended to. She’s no Maester, but she can fetch and carry and soothe and she’s eager to help in whatever ways she can. After an hour or so of this, an obedient hush suddenly falls over the room and Sansa turns to see Daenerys Targaryen standing in the doorway. 

She’s still wearing the same mud-and-blood stained dress she’d fought in, her hair mussed, and her eyes red-rimmed. She holds her head high, though, as she walks towards Sansa and her voice doesn’t shake as she says, “I was hoping to have a word with you, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa nods, remembering her brother’s plea from earlier and knowing the young woman before her is grieving as much as any of them. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Daenerys leads her out of the room and to the library where they can speak privately. It’s not the same library Sansa remembers from her childhood, that one had burned not long after she’d left Winterfell for King’s Landing. Like the rest of The North, it’s in need of rebuilding, and Sansa can only do her best to be up to the task.

Once the door has shut behind them and they’re alone, Daenerys turns to Sansa, her regal façade slipping away and giving Sansa her first real glimpse at the girl her brother has fallen in love with. She looks tired and sad but there’s still a warmth burning inside of her that Sansa doesn’t think has anything to do with dragonfire.

“How are you, Lady Sansa?” Daenerys asks her.

Sansa sighs. “Better than I feared I’d be twelve hours ago,” she replies, knowing she came through the night luckier than most. The people she loves are all still breathing, at least for now. She knows the same can’t be said for Daenerys. “How are you?”

Their eyes meet and for a moment Sansa thinks she’s about to close off again, go back into Queen-mode, and scold her for her impertinence, but instead her last bit of formality seems to break and she sighs, shaking her head. “Ser Jorah has been by my side for years. Since before my dragons were born.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa tells her softly, and she means it. “We both owe House Mormont much. We’ll see that he’s honoured as he deserves.”

“Will you?” Daenerys asks, her eyes shiny with wetness. “Your father exiled him once.”

“Well, for better or worse,” Sansa replies, giving a small half-smile. “Neither of us are our fathers. Ser Jorah died defending The North. He was Northman and The North remembers.”

Daenerys takes a deep breath and nods her head. “Thank you.”

They’re quiet for a moment as Daenerys recomposes herself before Sansa asks, “What was it you wanted to speak to me about, Your Grace?”

“The letter I received from Yara Greyjoy this morning,” Daenerys replies, some of the formality creeping in again now that they’re back to business.

“What about it?” Sansa wonders.

“I’ve already written out a letter telling her the Night King and his army are dead and that it’s time to turn our attention south,” Daenerys begins. “But she needs to be told of her brother’s condition and I thought perhaps you should be the one to do that.”

“Me?” Sansa is taken aback. “I don’t know Yara Greyjoy at all.”

“No,” Daenerys agrees, eyeing Sansa as if choosing her words carefully. “But you care for her brother.”

Sansa swallows, breaking eye contact and staring down at her own hands. “We grew up together.”

“I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Daenerys replies. “But I saw the way you greeted him yesterday and it seemed as though—”

“I’ll write to her,” Sansa cuts her off, lifting her head and meeting her eyes again. “I’ll tell her about Theon’s condition and let her know she’s welcome in Winterfell should she want to come. I’m sure she’ll want the bodies of her men back, as well.”

“Of course,” Daenerys nods, the brief moment of camaraderie between them at its end.

Sansa hadn’t meant to turn cold the way she did, but something had irked her about Daenerys bringing up Theon like that. It’s one thing for Jon to confront her about her feelings for him, but Daenerys doesn’t have that right. It’s just one more thing she hasn’t earned but seems to expect nonetheless.

“Was there anything else, Your Grace?” Sansa asks, holding her head up high. 

Daenerys does the same, though she doesn’t seem as committed to it as Sansa. “No, Lady Sansa, that was all. I’ve already given my letter to your Maester. Please do the same once you’ve written yours.”

Sansa nods. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Daenerys eyes her a moment longer before turning away and sweeping out of the room. Sansa watches her go, feeling herself deflate as she leaves the room. After a moment she shakes herself and turns to find a quill.

XxXx

It’s a long day filled with grief and hard work and at the end of it Sansa finds herself at Theon’s chamber again. The Maester is there when she enters, checking his bandages.

“My Lady,” he greets her.

“Has there been any change?” she asks, looking down at Theon. He’s pale, his breathing laboured, but he doesn’t look any different than he did when she’d left him this morning.

“None, My Lady,” he replies. “No better, but no worse, either. It’s still early.”

Sansa nods, eyes still on Theon. “And he hasn’t woken up at all?”

“I’d have sent for you if he had,” the Maester answers gently.

Sansa looks up at him with a grateful smile. “I appreciate that.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, My Lady,” he says with a nod. “There are bandages downstairs that need changing, as well.”

“Of course,” Sansa replies, stepping aside and letting him move past her to the door. “Thank you, Maester.”

With one last nod, he exits the room, shutting the door behind him, and leaving her alone with Theon. There’s a chair by the window that she pulls over so she can sit next to his bed. 

The Maester had pulled the covers back up over his abdomen when he’d finished his work, but Theon’s right hand lays on top of the cover. It’s the first time she’s seen him without gloves on, she realizes. She’d known he was missing fingers, of course, but she’s never actually gotten a look at the devastation Ramsay had done to him. This isn’t even the half of it, she knows.

She reaches out, curling her fingers into his palm. His skin is clammy, but not ice cold like it was last night when she’d found him in the Godswood. That in and of itself was a relief. He’d been cold as the grave then, but he feels alive now.

She watches his face while he sleeps, searching for any sign of change but none comes. After a few moments of silence she finally begins to speak.

“I wrote to your sister today,” she tells him. “I wasn’t sure what to say, but I told her that you had fought well. I know that’s important to the Ironborn.” 

She lapses into silence again, finding it difficult to keep up a conversation on her own. Theon’s chest slowly rises and falls, the rhythm of it soothing to Sansa’s frayed nerves. She feels like she’s been running and fighting for so long and this is the first quiet moment she’s had in years. 

“I invited her to come to Winterfell,” she breaks her own silence. “I don’t know if she will, but I’d like to meet her. And she’s your sister. She should be with you now.”

 _Just in case,_ she doesn’t say. _Just in case you don’t wake up, she should have the chance to say goodbye._

Sansa knows all too well what it’s like to lose your brother when he’s miles away, that awful feeling that comes with realizing you’ve already spoken your last words to someone you love and you’ll never see them again. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone, much less someone so important to Theon. 

“You can show her where you grew up,” she says softly. “The places we all use to play as children.”

She bites her lip, leaning closer to him, and whispers, “Please wake up soon, Theon.”

The creak of wood makes her sit back and turn towards the door just in time to see it open and Arya slip inside.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she says when she sees Sansa. She comes over and stands next to her sister, looking down at Theon. “How is he?”

“Alive,” Sansa replies. “I think that’s the best we can ask for right now.”

Arya watches him sleep for a moment before saying, “I never knew what Robb saw in him.”

Sansa looks up at her sister with a smile. “You didn’t like him because Jon didn’t like him.”

Arya laughs at that. “You’re probably right.”

She moves away from Sansa to the window, the humour leaving her face as she looks out at the devastation below.

“So, what does it feel like?” Sansa asks. “Being the saviour of the world?”

She doesn’t need to see her sister’s face to know she’s rolling her eyes. “I may have carried the blade, but it was Bran’s plan,” she replies, turning back around. “Carried out by all of us.”

They both glance back down at Theon. He’d played an important role in their victory, Sansa knows, keeping Bran alive and buying Arya the time she needed to finish it. She’s so proud of him and she only hopes she gets the chance to tell him.

“I’m sorry,” Arya murmurs after a moment. “That I didn’t get there sooner.”

Sansa looks up at her, surprised. “Arya, you don’t have anything to apologize for. You saved us all last night.” 

“Not all,” Arya says sadly and they both look down at Theon again.

In a strange way it’s like the battle isn’t over yet, not until they know if the Night King has claimed his last victim or not. 

“Jon says you love him,” Arya tells her bluntly but not unkindly. “Do you?”

Sansa sighs, eyes not leaving Theon’s face, his hand still clutched in hers. “I haven’t had much chance to find out yet,” she answers honestly. It’s strange, how easy it is to be honest with Arya now. “But I think so.”

Arya huffs a laugh and Sansa looks up at her in confusion. “I’m just trying to imagine the look on Robb’s face,” Arya tells her. “If he could hear you say that.”

Sansa laughs, too, but it quickly fades. “He died hating Theon.”

“No,” Arya shakes her head. “He may have been angry, but he loved Theon. And Robb didn’t have it in him to hate anyone, not really.”

They’re quiet for a moment, both thinking about their brother, before Sansa looks up at Arya again. “What about you?”

Arya looks down at her, confused. “What about me?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the boy following you around all day like a puppy dog,” she replies slyly. “What’s his name?”

Arya doesn’t meet her eye but there’s a smile pulling at her lips. “Gendry.”

“Gendry,” Sansa repeats. “And how do you know Gendry?”

Arya sighs. “We met years ago. In King’s Landing.”

“King’s Landing?” Sansa asks, surprised. 

Arya nods. “We left the city together. He was with the group that was headed for The Wall.”

“He wanted to join the Night’s Watch?”

“Not really,” Arya shrugs. “He just didn’t have anywhere else to go. He’d been apprenticing at a blacksmith but his master sent him away.”

“He smithed for us, didn’t he?” Sansa wants to know.

“He’s good with dragonglass,” Arya tells her.

“We’ll have to see to it that he’s properly thanked,” Sansa says.

Arya smirks. “I think I have that taken care of.”

Sansa looks at her curiously, trying to discern her meaning. When she finally realizes it she can’t help but laugh.

“Arya!” she exclaims. “Did you—”

“They could have been our final hours,” Arya replies, shameless, her smile only growing. “And I had no intention of dying a virgin.”

Sansa laughs again. Once she would have been scandalized by the idea of her sister sleeping with a man outside of marriage, and a blacksmith no less. All she feels now, though, is grateful. Grateful that her sister and the boy she loves both made it through the night unscathed, grateful that they have a future, grateful that Arya’s first time with a man had been about love and life, not trauma and pain.

“You’ll have to introduce me to him,” Sansa tells her. 

Arya considers her for a moment. “I wasn’t sure if you’d approve.”

“I wouldn’t have once,” Sansa replies. “But I know what’s really important now. You should be happy.”

“So should you,” Arya says. 

Sansa looks back at Theon. “I can hardly think about that right now.”

“I know,” Arya nods. “But even if he doesn’t pull through, Sansa, you deserve to be happy.”

Arya leaves her alone with Theon shortly after that, giving her shoulder a squeeze as she heads out the door. Sansa thinks over her sister’s words as she sits silently, the only noise the popping of the fire in the hearth and Theon’s soft, ragged breathing.

It’s been so long since she was happy she’s not even sure she knows what it feels like anymore. She’d been happy as a girl, growing up in Winterfell surrounded by her family without a care in the world. She’d thought she was happy in King’s Landing, at least at the beginning, when Cersei was kind to her and Joffrey doted on her and one day she’d be queen. 

What a blind, naïve child she’d been.

She tries to imagine what happiness would look like now. The North free, Winterfell whole, her family safe. She thinks of Arya and her blacksmith, Jon and his queen. There is happiness in the future, but if Theon never opens his eyes she can’t be sure how much of it will truly be hers.

Her family’s happiness is enough, though. After everything they’ve all been through, getting to see them live happy lives will be more than enough.

XxXx

It’s three days before Yara Greyjoy’s response arrives. They’ve all been hard at work, cleaning up Winterfell and the surrounding area, burying bodies and building funeral pyres. Sansa is awed by the resilience of the people around her as they work together to pick up the pieces. Northerners, wildlings, foreigners from across the Narrow Sea – once they all would have hated each other but now they’re bonded. They’ve fought side-by-side and survived the stuff of legends together.

The Maester finds her shortly before midday, helping to dole out stew in the courtyard to the workers and refugees who are still taking haven at Winterfell.

“A raven from the Iron Islands, My Lady,” he tells her, brandishing a small scroll.

Sansa hands off the bowl she was filling and excuses herself from the serving line. “Have you told Queen Daenerys?” she asks as she approaches.

“There is one for Her Grace, as well,” he responds, pulling another scroll from beneath the folds of his cloak. “But this one is addressed to you, My Lady.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replies, taking the scroll he’s offering her and heading inside.

Without thinking about it, her feet carry her up the stone steps to Theon’s chamber. He hasn’t woken up yet, but his colour seems better and his breathing less laboured. She sits next to his bed and examines the seal on the scroll – a kraken stamped into gold wax. It’s a familiar sight, there’s a similar one painted on the wall above Theon’s bed, put there years ago in anticipation of his arrival at Winterfell. It’s still there now, amazingly. This must have been one of the chambers the Boltons had neglected when they’d held the castle, probably only a matter of time before it was painted over and forgotten.

“A raven arrived from your sister,” she tells Theon. She’s gotten into the habit of coming up here in the evenings and talking to him. She doesn’t know if he can hear her, but somehow it makes her feel better.

Sansa breaks the seal on the scroll and unfurls it, her eyes scanning it quickly. It’s short and to the point, written in a sharp and not-particularly-feminine hand, but there’s nothing hostile or unkind in her words. She thanks Sansa for her letter and for taking care of Theon and accepts her invitation to come to Winterfell, both to see her brother and to convey the bodies of her men back to the Iron Islands where they can be buried at sea according to Ironborn custom.

She reads every word out loud, pausing at the end to look up at Theon. No reaction, though she isn’t really expecting one. “Well, she’s coming,” she sighs, looking back down at the scroll. “She says here that she planned to leave the same day she wrote this, so it shouldn’t be more a few days until she arrives.”

She glances at Theon again, her hands falling into her lap. “I’m sure she’d be happy to find you awake,” she murmurs. 

A lock of hair has fallen across his forehead and Sansa reaches out to brush it away just as there’s a _tap_ on the door and it’s slowly pushed open. She jumps back but too late for the young woman to miss what she’d been doing as she enters the chamber.

“Apologies,” Daenerys says. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

Sansa shakes her head, trying to force a friendly smile onto her features. “No intrusion, Your Grace.”

Daenerys hesitates, probably knowing Sansa is lying, but pushes on anyway. “Jon told me I might find you here,” she says softly.

Sansa nods, looks over at Theon. “I’d hate for him to wake up alone,” she replies. _I’d hate for him to die alone._

Almost like she hears the words Sansa doesn’t say, Daenerys quietly replies, “I understand.”

They lapse into awkward silence and after a moment Sansa asks, as kindly as she can, “Was there something I could do for you, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Daenerys replies, drawing herself up and looking Sansa in the eye. “I’ve received word that Yara Greyjoy is coming to Winterfell. I presume you have as well.”

“I have,” Sansa nods. “I expect she’ll be arriving within the week.”

“How did she take the news of her brother’s injury?” Daenerys asks next. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type,” Sansa answers honestly and the corners of Daenerys’ lips curl upwards. “But she’s coming, so that must mean she cares.”

“I think she does,” Daenerys replies, looking down at Theon in his bed, her brows furrowing in as she considers him. “He’s come a long way since the day we met. He seems like almost a completely different person now.”

Sansa tilts her head in confusion. “How do you mean?”

“He was quiet then,” Daenerys explains. “Meek. It’s hard to believe that was the same man who volunteered to face the Night King.”

“He was always so arrogant when we were children,” Sansa tells her. “Cocky. Thought he was the most charming, handsome boy in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys side-eyes her. “And was he?”

Sansa feels her cheeks warm, just slightly. Truth be told, she had once thought those things about Theon, when she was a young girl who dreamed of knights and romance and he was the only boy she knew that wasn’t her brother.

“We were children,” is the only response Sansa is willing to give, but once again she thinks Daenerys hears what she doesn’t say.

“Things are never as simple as we think they are when we’re young,” she agrees. They’re quiet for another moment before Daenerys goes on. “I didn’t know at first that he’d grown up here.”

“No?” Sansa replies, not sure what else to say.

“Jon told me they always had a strained relationship,” Daenerys elaborates. 

“They have more in common than they like to admit,” Sansa tells her. “But they were both always competing for Robb’s attention or my father’s. They never gave themselves the chance to be friends. It seems silly now, the things we thought were important back then.”

Daenerys nods before turning to look at her again. “Robb? That’s your older brother?”

“Yes,” Sansa replies, eyes still on Theon.

“I remember hearing about him,” Daenerys says. “He was King in the North before Jon, wasn’t he?”

Sansa looks back at her now, suspicious of what her intentions are. “He was. He was declared so by his men after gaining a victory in the war. Theon was one of the first to kneel to him.”

She doesn’t know this for sure, of course. It’s something she heard second- or third-hand. Very few of the people who had been there to witness it are still living, but Theon is one of them. For the first time she realizes that losing Theon will be something like losing Robb all over again – at least, some part of him that still exists in this world. 

No one is really dead while there are still people alive that remember them. Isn’t that what they’d all been fighting for? 

“I didn’t quite understand it the other day,” Daenerys sighs. “When he knelt to me, but pledged himself to you. But it makes more sense to me now. He loves your family.”

“He _is_ my family,” Sansa replies without hesitation. “ _Our_ family. Mine and Jon’s and Arya’s and Bran’s. We’re all that’s left now.”

“I understand that as well,” Daenerys nods. “Being the last of your family.”

“It makes you cling to the ones you have left,” Sansa says, watching Theon again. “I never got along very well with Jon or Arya as children, but that all seems so silly now. Nothing matters more than family.”

She turns back to Daenerys to find her watching her closely, a look of deep consideration on her face. Finally she seems to snap out of it and says, “I’d like to have a meeting with everyone once Yara has arrived. There’s still much to be discussed about the future.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sansa agrees, slipping back into formalities as the intimacy of the past few moments seems to fade away.

Daenerys spares one last glance at Theon before turning away. “He’s looking better,” she insists and leaves the room.

XxXx

The next evening, before heading up to spend some time by Theon’s bedside, Sansa checks in on Bran. He’s been quiet and solitary the past few days, even more so than usual. It seems that with the Night King vanquished he’s decided they’re no longer in need of his cryptic advice.

“Hello, Sansa,” he greets her, his voice monotone and his eyes still staring out the window.

“Hello, Bran,” she replies with a smile, trying to be as warm as possible regardless of how uncomfortable he makes her now. “I just wanted to come and see how you were doing.”

“I’m well,” he tells her, not bothering to elaborate. 

Sansa shifts awkwardly for a moment before taking a breath and striding across the room, sitting in the chair next to Bran. “What will you do now?” she asks him, dreading the answer. “Now that it’s all over.”

“I don’t know yet,” he says.

She fidgets with the hem or her sleeve, hesitating. “Do you think you’ll ever be _Bran_ again?”

“Your brother isn’t gone,” he assures her, though there’s little warmth in it. “He’s still a part of me. He always will be.”

“But there’s other parts now, too,” Sansa responds. “And they’ll always be a part of you, as well?”

“I’m the Three-Eyed Raven,” is his only reply.

She stares at her lap for a long moment, tracing the embroidery on her dress and trying to decide if she wants to ask the question that’s been lingering on her mind. Finally, she looks back up at Bran, who’s eyes are still gazing out over the Godswood.

“Can you…” she pauses, hesitating. “Can you see the future?”

“I don’t know if Theon is going to live or die,” he tells her bluntly. “All I know is that his part in this story is done. But then, so is all of ours.”

Sansa nods. “Of course. It was silly of me to ask.”

“Your love for him isn’t silly,” Bran replies instantly, still eerily calm but with just a touch more emotion than she’s heard from him since his return. “It saved him and you and, in the end, all of us. It wasn’t the only thing, but it was an important part of the story.”

Sansa is taken aback at that and finds herself not knowing what to say. She watches, speechless, as Bran finally turns away from the window, reaching for something on a nearby table. He passes it over to her and she examines it, not knowing at first what it is.

“Our mother made it for me,” Bran informs her. “After I was injured.”

“It’s an effigy of The Seven,” she realizes. She remembers now, her mother sitting by Bran’s bedside dutifully weaving it. 

“I found it here, tucked away in a drawer,” he explains. “I thought you might like it for Theon.”

“Thank you,” she says, looking up at him in surprise and searching his face for any sign of her little brother. Maybe she’s just imagining it, but she thinks, perhaps, she’s beginning to see some fragments of him surface in the sea of memory and wisdom he’s been sinking in for so long.

XxXx

Sansa’s prediction is spot on and six days after her raven, Yara Greyjoy herself arrives at Winterfell. Daenerys makes it to the Great Hall first and has already greeted Yara by the time Sansa enters the room. 

“Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell,” Daenerys introduces them. “Meet Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands.”

“I’ve heard much about you, Queen Yara,” Sansa greets her, trying to hide her annoyance at the title. If the Iron Islands get independence, why not The North?

“As I have you, Lady Stark,” Yara replies, holding an arm out to her. “I believe I owe you thanks.”

Sansa is confused. “I’m sorry?”

“You saved my brother’s life,” Yara tells her, arm still outstretched.

Sansa reaches out and grips her forearm the way she’s seen Jon do. Yara returns the pressure and gives her arm a stiff shake.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Yara says, looking her straight in the eye.

“I don’t know that I saved his life,” Sansa replies. “But we’re seeing to it that he’s taken care of.”

Yara shakes her head. “I didn’t mean this time. Though I suppose I should be thanking you for that, as well,” Yara explains. “I meant before. With the Bolton bastard.”

Sansa takes a sharp breath, not expecting that. She can feel Daenerys’ eyes on her and suddenly wonders how much of this story the Dragon Queen has been told. Judging by the questioning look in her eyes when Sansa meets them, not much.

“I wonder, Your Grace,” she begins, trying to keep the slight quiver from her voice. “If Queen Yara and I might have a moment to speak alone?”

Daenerys looks surprised, glances back and forth between the other two women, and nods. “Of course. We can all speak later.”

She sweeps out of the room, leaving Sansa and Yara alone.

“If you’ll follow me,” Sansa says, turning to her guest. “I’ll show you to where your brother is resting.”

Yara eyes Sansa carefully before nodding her head. “Lead the way.”

They don’t speak all the way up to Theon’s chamber. It’s been more than a week since the battle, but he still hasn’t woken up. His colour is definitely returning to him, though, and he’s resting more peacefully than he has in days. The Maester had told her they were lucky, that they’d managed to get to him before any corruption had a chance to set in.

Sansa steps back as they enter, allowing Yara to make her way to her brother’s bedside. She leans over him, pulling the cover back to get a look at the bandages on his abdomen, clean and white. It must have been changed recently.

“Your Maesters do good work,” Yara nods. “We don’t have them in the Iron Islands.”

“Maesters?” Sansa asks. “Why not?”

“My father didn’t trust them,” Yara shrugs, still watching Theon sleep. “Has he woken up at all?”

“No,” Sansa replies, sadly. “But he doesn’t look anywhere near as bad as he did a few days ago.”

Yara reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small vial of murky liquid, a layer of sand settled on the bottom. She places it on the table next to Theon’s bed.

“What’s that?” Sansa asks, watching her curiously.

“Sea water,” Yara answers. “He’s Ironborn, if he’s going to die it should be by the sea.”

“We don’t know that he’s going to die,” Sansa insists. She hasn’t admitted it out loud yet, but she’s been starting to feel hopeful the past few days, as Theon has slowly begun to look more and more alive.

“We don’t know that he’s not,” Yara replies. They’re silent for a long moment before Yara finally goes on, her voice low as she watches her brother breathe. “But if he does, at least he’ll die a warrior,” she finally says, and turns back to Sansa. “He would’ve died like a dog at that bastard’s hands if not for you.” 

Sansa looks at her in surprise. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it was Theon that saved my life from Ramsay.”

“That’s not the way he tells it,” Yara replies, glancing at Theon again. 

Sansa shakes her head. “Ramsay would’ve killed me eventually,” she says. “Or I would’ve killed myself, if Theon hadn’t gotten me out.”

Yara considers her for a long moment, her expression unreadable to Sansa who, despite her discomfort, holds Yara’s gaze the whole time. “You know, I came for him once,” Yara tells her. “Shortly after he’d been taken prisoner, when he was still being held at the Dreadfort.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sansa replies.

Yara nods, looking at her brother again. “He didn’t believe it when he saw me. Thought it was some sort of trap. I couldn’t get through to him, but you did.”

Sansa is dumbstruck and doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I thought he was lost,” Yara admits, when Sansa remains silent. “After that day when he refused to come with me, I wrote him off for dead. Even if he was still breathing, I was sure my brother was lost forever. I gave up on him, but you didn’t.”

“He was my only hope,” Sansa explains. “He was the only one around who might help me.”

“You reminded him of who he was,” Yara insists. “You gave him something to fight for.”

Sansa looks down at her hands, a little awkwardly. “We saved each other, then,” she allows. “I never would’ve made it out of not for him.”

When she meets her eye again, Yara gives a sharp nod and Sansa feels the subject is at an end. Yara turns to glance around the room, taking it in for the first time since they arrived. When her eyes find the black and gold Greyjoy kraken on the wall she turns to Sansa with questioning eyes.

“This was Theon’s chamber when we were children,” Sansa explains. “My father sent word ahead before they left Pyke and my mother had it painted and waiting for him when he arrived here.”

Yara turns back to the mural, surprise evident on her face. “My father always said that you Starks would try to turn him into one of you. That your father would turn him against his house.”

“We never wanted Theon to forget his roots,” Sansa replies. “He was always so proud of being Ironborn.” She gives a small laugh as memories tickle the back of her mind. “We’re landlocked here, but I remember the boys climbing trees in the Godswood, pretending they were pirate ships. Theon always used to insist they do everything the proper way, using all the correct terms, like he was really teaching my brothers to sail.”

Yara smiles, just a bit, but it quickly fades. “My father always taught me to hate you,” she says, honestly, staring at Sansa as though she’s trying to figure her out. 

Sansa sighs. “Well, that’s the whole reason Theon was brought here, isn’t it? So the future lords of Winterfell and Pyke wouldn’t be enemies like their fathers?”

Yara cocks her head at her. “Is that the way you saw it?” she asks. “You and your siblings?”

She knows there was more to it than that, of course. Theon had been a hostage, his life in the hands of Sansa’s father to keep Lord Balon in line. “We were children,” she says. “We were only ever encouraged to see Theon as our friend, our brother, even.”

Yara eyes her over again. “And is that what he is to you? A brother?”

Sansa opens her mouth to answer before she realizes she doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t think of Theon like a brother, not anymore. She’s not sure if she ever truly did. 

“He’s family,” is the answer she gives, which is the truth, regardless of anything else. 

Yara watches her closely before nodding, apparently accepting that response. “Maybe he was better off here,” she says, looking down at Theon again. “Our father would have raised him to be like our brothers.”

Sansa forgets sometimes that Theon had brothers once. She’s always known him as the heir to the Iron Islands, but of course, that’s only because his brothers are dead. Theon is a third-born son, never meant to rule. And, given that his sister the Queen is standing before her now, Sansa supposes he never will.

“What were they like?” she finds herself asking.

“Rodrik and Maron?” Yara asks, raising her eyebrows at the question. “Miserable, violent gits. Theon’s a better man than they ever were and I have a feeling your family is the reason for it.”

“Your father can’t have been that bad,” Sansa replies. “He raised _you_.”

Yara chuckles. “I was different. I was a girl. I had to be smart as well as strong if I was going to earn his respect. The only thing he wanted from my brothers was strength.”

“Theon is strong,” Sansa says, not sure she likes what Yara is implying.

Their eyes meet again and Yara nods. “I know,” she replies, and turns back to Theon once more. “I didn’t see it before, but I do now.”

XxXx

Three days go by. Half of the men who accompanied Yara Greyjoy to Winterfell leave, conveying the bodies of their dead back to the Iron Islands. The other half remain with their queen, joining the rebuilding effort. It’s early in the afternoon when Sansa makes her way across the courtyard to where Yara is shouting orders at her men.

“Lady Stark,” Yara greets her as she approaches.

“Might I have a word with you, Queen Yara?” Sansa requests, stopping a few feet away from her.

Yara turns her head, pointing at one of her men and telling him to take over before looking back at Sansa and gesturing for her to lead on. Sansa brings her through the courtyard and around to the entrance of the Godswood. One of the stone pillars that stand to either side is still perfectly intact, but the other has crumbled under the weight of an undead dragon.

“We have excellent stonesmiths here in The North,” Sansa tells Yara, stopping in front of the broken gateway.

“I’m sure they’ll be able to rebuild it then,” Yara replies, clearly confused as to Sansa’s meaning.

“I thought it might be appropriate to put a memorial here,” Sansa goes on. “To honour the Ironborn who died defending a son of Winterfell.”

Yara goes very still, not looking at Sansa but instead at the spot of her proposed memorial. Sansa worries for a moment that she’s overstepped a line, that perhaps this isn’t a good idea after all, but when she sees Yara swallow she decides to press on.

“I was thinking, perhaps, the kraken,” she says. “But I thought I should ask your opinion first.”

Yara nods. “That’s very kind of you, Lady Sansa. I do have one request.”

“Anything,” Sansa promises.

“’What is dead may never die’,” Yara recites. “’But rises again, harder and stronger’.”

Sansa recognizes the prayer to the Drowned God and gives a nod. “I’ll see it done.”

They don’t get a chance to say another word because at just that moment the Maester comes hurrying over, huffing under the weight of his long chain.

“My Lady!” he calls out and Sansa turns to see what the matter is.

“Is there a problem, Maester?” she asks, her mind immediately jumping to Theon and the worst.

“Excuse me, My Lady, but I knew you’d want to be informed,” he says with a short bow. “Prince Theon is awake.”

Sansa and Yara exchange a brief glance before both quickly making their way into the castle and up to Theon’s bedchamber. Yara, in her boots and trousers, is the quicker of the two and by the time Sansa makes it into the room she’s already kneeling by her brother’s bedside.

He’s still pale and lying back against the cushions, but his eyes are open and they meet Sansa’s as she stops just inside the doorway. She’d been so afraid she’d never see those eyes again. They’re the colour of the sea. How had she never noticed that before?

“Sansa,” he murmurs at the sight of her.

She feels tears well in her eyes and a lump rise in her throat. “Theon,” she replies, voice quavering.

“They’ve taken good care of you, these Starks,” Yara says to him, turning to the side so she can glance up at Sansa as well. “Maybe they aren’t so bad after all.”

Theon’s eyes flick back and forth between Yara and Sansa, before finally asking with a cracked voice, “Bran? The Night King?”

Sansa moves closer to him, wanting to kneel next to Yara and take his hand but managing to hold herself back. “Bran is fine. The Night King is dead. We won.”

A bevvy of emotions flash across Theon’s face in that moment and tears well up in his eyes. “We won?”

Sansa nods. “You protected Bran until the very end. You gave Arya the time she needed to finish it.”

“Arya?” Theon asks. “Arya killed the Night King?”

“I can hardly believe it, either,” Sansa replies, a laugh bubbling up out of her despite the tears gathering in her eyes.

“And the others?” he questions. “Jon? Daenerys?”

“Alive,” Sansa assures him. “Brienne and Podrick, too.”

Theon sighs, seeming to relax at this news, but his eyes don’t leave Sansa’s face, his expression softening ever-so-slightly. “And you?”

Sansa gives him a watery smile. “I’m fine now.”

Yara, who’s been watching this exchange in silence, stands up now, giving her brother’s arm a light squeeze as she does. “I should go tell the men you’re awake,” she says, waiting for Theon to nod before turning around. Her eyes briefly meet Sansa’s as she heads for the door but her expression is unreadable. Sansa gets the impression, though, that her true purpose is to give them a moment alone.

Sansa watches her go, not turning back to Theon until the door has shut behind her. When their eyes meet again, she can’t help the tears from finally overflowing and spilling down her cheeks. Theon raises his arm at the sight, reaching out for her and without hesitation Sansa moves toward him.

She lowers herself the edge of the bed, leaning over him and wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder as she does. His arms wrap around her, pulling her as close as he can in his weakened state.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in response.

Sansa pulls away from with a surprised laugh, just enough to look into his eyes, her hands sliding up to cradle either side of his face. “Sorry?” she asks. “Theon, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

He shakes his head, tears leaking out across his temples. “Sansa—”

She shakes her head, silencing him. “We defeated the Army of the Dead and survived to see the dawn. And we couldn’t have done it without you.”

Without giving him the chance to disagree, she buries herself in his shoulder again, holding him close and silently thanking every god she’s ever heard of.

XxXx

Theon’s strength returns to him quickly and four days after waking he’s already able to move about the castle with the aid of only a crutch wedged under his arm. Still, Sansa has found herself at his side more often than not. He’s eager to help out with the cleanup and it seems to have fallen to Sansa to make sure he doesn’t strain himself while he’s still healing. She doesn’t mind, though. She’s happy to spend her time with Theon.

They’re walking along the walls, inspecting the repairs that have already begun on the stonework. Their gait is slow, Sansa keeping pace with Theon’s steps. It’s before midday and the white sun is shining on them, making everything they see for miles sparkle. It had been snowing for almost two days straight, but this morning it had finally relented. As a result, the once-battlefield is now blanketed in thick, white snow, any trace of the carnage that had taken place there masked by the pureness of it.

“You’ll have the castle looking back to normal in no time,” he comments as they stop to lean against the railing and peer down into the courtyard.

“I still can’t believe how lucky we are,” she replies. “We could have lost so much more than we did.”

Their eyes meet briefly, their hands just inches apart where they grip the railing. She feels the sudden urge to slide her fingers over and curl them around his but before she can act on it he rips his gaze away, back down to the people working in the courtyard below them, swallowing hard.

They continue along, stopping here and there to check in with the stonesmiths and builders. Everything seems to be going well and as they turn to head back to the castle, Sansa realizes this is the best she’s felt in a long time.

Though many lives had been lost in the battle, all the people Sansa loves best are still with her. Winterfell is no longer under threat, The North is safe, and she is free. It’s all so much more than she could have hoped for even a few months ago, never mind the years that stretched before that.

The pause as they approach the stairs, noticing Yara making her way up towards them.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she calls out them, mounting the last step and stopping in front of them. “I wanted to speak with you.” Sansa moves to excuse herself and give the siblings a moment alone, but Yara stops her. “Both of you.”

Curious, Sansa asks, “What about?”

Yara sighs, and glances at her brother. “Daenerys has called a meeting for this evening,” she informs them. “To discuss what comes next.”

“She wants to move against Cersei,” Sansa guesses.

Yara shrugs. “With the threat in the north dealt with, it’s time to turn our attention to the one in the south.”

Sansa doesn’t disagree, though she tries not to look too eager at the prospect of having Daenerys and her army leave The North. “Of course,” is all she says.

Yara turns to Theon. “I think you should stay here.”

Theon’s brows knit in. “But Euron—”

“Let me take care of Euron,” she cuts him off. “You’ve done more than enough, little brother.” She looks him over, as if choosing her next words carefully. “And we need to be honest, Theon. You’re in no fit state to fight.”

Theon looks down at himself with a sigh and nods, sadly. “You’re right.”

Yara reaches out a hand and grips his shoulder, waiting until he meets her eye before speaking. “You’ve done your house proud, Theon,” she tells him earnestly. “You’ve earned the time you need to heal.”

Theon nods again, though Sansa knows there’s nothing anyone can say that will truly convince him he doesn’t belong at his sister’s side in this fight against their uncle.

“But I wanted to speak to you about what happens after,” Yara goes on after a moment. “After we defeat Cersei.”

Theon gives her a confused look. “What do you mean?”

Yara glances at Sansa, who’s just as confused as Theon, before replying, “I thought you might want to stay here.”

Theon goes very still next to her and Sansa looks up into his face, not daring to react until she has some idea of what he thinks. Theon is staring at his sister, eyes wide and undeniably hurt. “You don’t want me to come home?”

This time Yara puts both hands on his shoulders, staring deep into his eyes. “As long as I live, Theon, you will have a home on the Iron Islands,” she promises, glances at Sansa again. “But I think you have a home here, too.”

Theon looks shocked and Sansa finds herself suddenly speaking up, not giving him a chance to start bumbling excuses. “She’s right, Theon,” Sansa assures him. He turns to look at her and Yara takes a step back, arms falling down to her sides. “You’ll always be welcome at Winterfell. It’s your home for as long as you want it to be.”

He stares at her, awestruck. “Sansa, I…”

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. There’s plenty of time for that later.”

He nods, neither of them noticing as Yara slips away, back down the stairs. “Thank you,” he murmurs to her.

“Of course,” she says, smiling softly up at him, before taking his arm in hers and helping him down the stairs.

XxXx

They gather that evening in the small hall that had been converted into their war room before the battle. A fire crackles happily in the hearth as they all crowd around the table in the middle of the room. Bran isn’t here, uninterested in the fate of the Iron Throne, but Sansa and her other two siblings are both present. Theon stands across the table from her, at Yara’s side, while Daenerys and Tyrion have taken up their spot at the head. Brienne is there, as well, watching from the window with Jaime Lannister. Ser Davos leans against the mantlepiece, towards the Stark end of the room, and Tormund is pacing restlessly somewhere off to the side.

“The war with the dead is over,” Daenerys begins addressing the room. “And it’s time for us to turn our attentions south. Cersei Lannister still sits on the Iron Throne, guarded by Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and, as I’ve recently learned, approximately twenty thousand mercenaries from Essos.”

She stops here and exchanges a glance with Tyrion who gives her an encouraging nod. Daenerys glances around the room, her eyes lingering on Sansa for just a second longer than everyone else. Sansa watches her closely, apprehensive, though she isn’t entirely sure why.

“But before we start talking battle plans,” she goes on. “There’s another matter that needs to be addressed: the fate of The North.”

She looks at Sansa now, who holds her head up high, not breaking eye contact. “What about The North, Your Grace?”

Daenerys takes a deep breath, as if preparing herself for something, and finally replies, “I’m relinquishing my claim on it.”

A stunned silence falls over the room, the only sound the popping of the fire. No one dares to move, it seems. Finally, Sansa breaks the stillness, asking, “You no longer wish to rule over The North?”

Daenerys sighs. “My wishes aren’t as important as what’s best for the people of Westeros. The North wants independence and more than once they’ve fought for and earned it.” She looks around the room at them all, awkwardly. “I’ll admit, I was humbled the other night. I thought you needed me and my dragons, but in the end it was House Stark that saved us all.”

Sansa exchanges a look with Jon, silently asking if he had any idea about this. The shocked look in his eyes tells her that he didn’t. She turns back to Daenerys. “You’re giving Jon back his crown?”

Daenerys looks to Tyrion again, something awkward in her expression. Turning back to Sansa she answers, “It’s not my place to tell The North who should rule.” She pauses here, hesitating a moment. “But with queens in both The South and the Iron Islands, it would perhaps be fitting if The North had one as well.”

She looks directly at Sansa now, her meaning clear on her face. “You think I should be Queen in the North?” she asks, voice quiet.

“You should be,” Jon finally speaks up. “You should’ve been from the beginning.”

Sansa turns to him in surprise. “You don’t—”

“I do mean it,” he cuts her off. “You’re smarter than me. Better suited to rule.”

Her eyes slide over to Arya next, who gives a curt nod. “I agree.”

She continues looking around the room, meeting the gaze of Davos then Brienne who both stand up a little straighter and give a slight bow of the head.

Yara smirks when their eyes meet, jutting her chin up sharply as if to say, _Keep your head up_.

Finally she looks at Theon, who ducks his head but holds her gaze intently. It’s hard to say exactly how, but that look alone is enough to tell her that he believes in her.

She looks back to Daenerys, Tyrion giving her an encouraging nod as her eyes sweep past him. “I accept,” she announces, squaring her shoulders and standing up to her full height.

Daenerys smiles. “I look forward to a long and prosperous alliance between us.”

“As do I,” Sansa replies. “Now what’s the plan for Cersei?”

XxXx

Sansa can’t sleep that night, too many thoughts running through her head. Queen in the North. It’s hard to believe. She’d be lying if she said the thought had never occurred to her. More than once, in her disagreements with Jon, she had bitterly wondered why it was him the Northerners had crowned and not her. 

None of that matters now, though. She’s Queen in the North. It seems strange, that she should feel the same now as she did this morning when she was just the Lady of Winterfell.

Sighing heavily and accepting that she likely won’t be falling asleep any time soon, she pushes herself up. The only light in the room is from the embers glowing lowly in the fireplace but it’s enough for her to slip her feet into the fur-lined slippers on the floor and shrug on the thick dressing gown hanging from one of the bedposts.

She pulls the robe tightly around her as she steps out the door into the hallway. The castle it quiet at this time of the night, but there’s a guard stationed at the end of the hall. He stands up a little straighter when he sees Sansa and clears his throat.

“Is everything all right, My L—” he stops, quickly correcting himself. “My Queen?”

“Everything is fine,” she assures him. “Thank you. I just wanted to take walk.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. I won’t be leaving the castle.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” he says with a short bow.

She turns and makes her way down the stairs, not paying any attention to where she’s heading. Of their own accord, her feet carry her to the Great Hall, where the old stone seat with the direwolves carved into the armrests sits at the head of the room. Her father used to sit there, the Lord of Winterfell, and his father before him, stretching all the way back to the old Kings of Winter, when the seat had truly been a throne.

She approaches it slowly, making her way up the stone steps of the dais to stand before it. She reaches out, runs her fingers over the snout of one of the stone wolves. She turns and carefully lowers herself onto the throne, gripping the smooth stone beneath her hands. She starts when she looks up and finds Theon watching her from the other side of the room, standing just inside the large double doors.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying easily across the quiet, moonlit hall.

“You aren’t,” she replies.

She watches as he slowly limps his way towards her, leaning on his crutch. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the dais, instead climbing the steps and standing in front of her. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of him yet and watches with a pounding heart as he slowly and carefully lowers himself to kneel before her, bowing his head.

“Theon,” she breathes his name into the still, night air.

“Your Grace,” he replies, looking up into her eyes, but remaining on his knees.

She blushes. It’s strange, hearing that title on his voice. “You don’t have to call me that,” she tells him. “Especially not when we’re alone.”

He smiles at her, but there’s something sad in his eyes. “Robb told me the same thing once.”

She laughs softly, looking down at her hands in her lap, before back up into his eyes. “What are you doing down here?” she asks him. “You should be resting.”

“If that’s what my queen commands,” he tells her, though makes no move to get up.

“I’m not _your_ queen,” she replies, smiling, but falters when the earnest look in his eye doesn’t fade. “Am I?”

He sighs, almost wistful. “I pledged my sword to Daenerys and my loyalty to Yara,” he begins. “But, Sansa…”

She leans forward as he trails off, their faces inches apart. “Theon?”

“Sansa, my heart—” it’s all she needs to hear, surging forward and placing her lips over his. 

The kiss starts soft and chaste, but soon her fingers are tangled in his hair and his arms are wrapping around her waist as she slides off the throne so she’s kneeling, too, their bodies pressed together. When they finally pull back, Sansa opens her eyes to find Theon staring at her in wonder

“Sansa,” he murmurs her name, almost as though it’s prayer.

“Theon, I love you,” she tells him, no hesitation. His eyes widen with shock and disbelief, so she says it again, more forcefully this time. “ _I love you_.”

There are tears in his eyes as he desperately pulls her back against him, kissing her again.

“I love you,” he whispers into her lips, her ear, the soft skin where her neck meets her shoulder. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The falling snowflakes dance outside the windows and the moon keeps silent vigil as Sansa and Theon cling to each other, safe and free and alive.


End file.
